


what we've become

by shutup_anddance



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A love Story, Adoption, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Gay Character, Cigarettes, Coffee Shops, Crack, Cuddles, Cute boys in love, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Lots of Tea, Love, M/M, Marriage, Murder Husbands, Nygmobblepot, Satire, and last but not least, character tropes, dads :))), enough to drown a Brit, green and purple aesthetics, questionable sexual practices, rain kisses, sharp-ass canon divergence, the sound of my soul sobbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 15:11:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13707039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutup_anddance/pseuds/shutup_anddance
Summary: Taking a crack at a good-natured roasting of the most common Nygmobblepot tropes. Emphasis on crack.





	1. In Name Only

**Author's Note:**

> This work is intended as piece of satirical humor. As humor is highly subjective, I don't expect that all of you will find this story amusing, and that's fine. To each his own. But do not ask me to take it down, as I will not be doing so. If you find that this isn't to your taste, kindly acquaint yourself with the back button and have a nice day.

It’s the night of the big Gotham charity gala, and Oswald Cobblepot is dressed to the nines in purple. Purple suit. Purple gloves. Purple top hat. He drives a purple car with a plush purple interior, and every bit of decor in his lavish mansion is—you guessed it: purple. If it weren’t so impractical, he’d even dye his pubes the same vibrant hue. 

You see, purple is Oswald’s signature color, and this dictates that everything he owns must conform to this bizarre bit of self-branding. There’s just really no other way to drive the point home unless one beats it into the ground as often as possible.

Edward Nygma’s signature color is green, and you can bet the farm that he’ll be swathed in green, right down to his question mark-print underwear. Because if one is going to have a motif, then it should be printed  _ everywhere _ . When Edward and Oswald moved in together some months ago, their home became a godawful amalgamation of green, purple, question marks and umbrellas, and somehow none of their staff or underlings have questioned this or tried to have them committed. 

They’re getting ready in the mansion’s dressing room, preparing for a night on the town where they’ll flirt and drink and paw each other like horny adolescents, but they’re definitely Not Together. Everyone at the event will believe this, of course, because it works for the narrative—and because people in Gotham are exceedingly stupid. (No wonder Batman’s identity will be such a big damn mystery years down the line.) 

Edward sits back in his chair admiring the fine figure his lover cuts in his three-piece suit when something suddenly catches his eye from across the room. It’s their matching Arkham sanity certificates (squee!), and though he can’t quite put his finger on why, seeing them fills Edward with nostalgic longing. But mixed with that longing is another emotion, one that sits in his stomach like a lead balloon.

“Hey Ozzie,” he ventures, “when’s the last time you murdered somebody?”

“Show, or fic?” Oswald asks, turning to examine himself in the dressing mirrors (as he does for a solid two hours before any public appearance).

“Fic,” Edward replies.

Oswald thinks on this query, his mouth gradually pulling into a frown. “Well, I suppose I don’t really do much of that,” he says.   
“Then how are you King of the Underworld again?”

“People fear me.”

Edward seems genuinely perplexed. “Yes, but why?” 

Oswald takes another ponderous pause, then straightens his tie. “I think it’s my hair.”

Edward shrugs and tucks a small bottle of lube into each pocket (because you never know when the mood will strike), and the matter is forgotten. After all, who can worry with such trivialities when there’s a gala to attend?

Now, one might think this grand event will mark the beginning of some glorious crime spree for the pair. Perhaps they’ll hold the roomful of stuffed shirts hostage for a load of cash, or kidnap a socialite, or just raise a little bit of good old-fashioned hell for shits. 

One would be wrong.

Because Oswald Cobblepot—a man who once stabbed a man for a sandwich—and Edward Nygma—who strangled and chopped up his girlfriend—are respected members of Gotham society, and the gala is celebrating the generous donation the pair have made to Gotham General Hospital. They’re going to have a magical night and dance like Cinderella and fucking Prince Charming and refer to each other as darling and Little Bird (because Oswald is the Penguin, you see, so it’s clever), and no one will dare cast even one side-eyed glance at such saccharine theatrics, because Edward and Oswald are Powerful and Respected. Fucking kings and shit. 

Now it’s a mystery as to how, exactly, they’ve come by these reputations, because despite going on about how they're murderers and criminals, they don’t actually  _ do  _ much murdering these days. One presumes it’s simply too messy an affair, and dirtying their hands with such brutality means they have less time for lovemaking and tender snuggling. 

Indeed, after their night out they opt to walk home—hand in hand—taking in the chilly night air and chatting like the best of friends. It begins to rain, but this doesn’t dampen the mood in the slightest. In fact, they make the most of it, stopping beneath a street lamp to lock lips in the most passionate of kisses. One can practically hear the soft chorus of angels singing to celebrate this soft, sweet moment. 

That’s the real secret of Edward Nygma and Oswald Cobblepot, you see. These days they prefer good deeds and delicate rain kisses over power and chaos. Clearly, all of the Batman tales in which they kidnap and terrorize the citizens of Gotham have been written by Batman fanboys to make poor villains (Should we even call them that at this point? They’re just misunderstood babies!) like Edward and Oswald seem as malicious as possible. Absolutely slanderous.


	2. The Gentle Art of Making Love

“Please, my love, be gentle,” Oswald mews from atop his purple satin sheets. 

Edward produces a small bottle of lube from somewhere, like a magician pulling a gaudy bouquet from the ether. “Don’t worry, little bird,” he reassures him, “I always keep a bottle of lube on me because we’re so in love and hot for each other that one must be prepared for lovemaking at all times.”

This is no exaggeration. There are, in fact, bottles of lube stashed away in every drawer of the house—two in the glovebox of the car—like some sexual deviant’s end-of-the-world emergency kit.

Oswald, with his porcelain ass stuck in the air like a needy cat, practically purrs. “Oh, Eddie, you’re so thoughtful.”

They proceed to Make Love, and it is a tender affair, as all such trysts should be. There is passion, but it is of course tastefully restrained, and no one does anything too roughly. After all, Oswald is made of glass and might crack in two at the slightest bit of manhandling. 

When they finish—the musk of sex and the satisfaction of a mindblowing, toe-curling, blackout orgasm washing over them in waves—they snuggle up together and kiss each other on the nose. 

Both men struggle to hold back tears because The Moment is so  _ beautiful _ and so very  _ profound _ . 

“Marry me,” Edward says in his state of euphoric, post-coital bliss. 

Oswald blushes from head to toe and, with visions of haute couture dancing before his ocean-colored eyes, needs no time to think it over. “Oh, my dearest—yes!”

And from that moment onwards, they refer to each other as “husband”, because that’s just the sort of thing married people do. All the time. 


	3. The Family Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigh.

“Husband,” Oswald says one morning over tea, “I think we should expand our little family. Maybe add a baby bird to the nest.”

“You— you want to have a baby?” Try as he might, Edward cannot hide his surprise.

But Edward’s shock is not unhappy or troubled, because these men—nay _boys,_ because that’s so adorably playful— _melt_ at the idea of having children. Sure, Oswald’s face scrunches like he’s stepped in something particularly odoriferous, and Ed finds them tedious and asinine, but they know in their hearts that it’s only because they’ve not met the right child to show them how grand being Dads :))) will be.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be a baby. A child of any age would be _so_ much fun.”

Oswald needn’t sell it further. Edward’s eyes are already swimming with happy tears, because having a child is obviously what everyone wants in life. The pinnacle of every loving relationship.

“We’ll bake cookies and go to museums and every day will be like Christmas!” Edward exclaims.

Oswald beams. “Nothing would give me more pleasure, dear husband.” Except, perhaps, making love in front of the fireplace—their most special spot. But they can always celebrate their perfect lives later.

However, Edward’s joy fades just as quickly as it blossomed. “Ozzie… do you— do you think we’ll be allowed?” he asks, almost ashamed. “You know, with our histories?”

Between the two of them, Edward and Oswald have spent nearly a year in Arkham and have committed some of the most shocking crimes in the history of the city to boot. But Oswald doesn’t see this as an obstacle in the slightest. And why would it be? Everyone knows adoption is as easy as heading down to the nearest orphanage and pointing through the windows, criminal pasts be damned.

“Pfft, nobody will care at all—they’re orphans!” he exclaims.

“And if it is a problem, we’ll show them,” Edward grins, “just how in love we are!”


	4. The Down and Dirty of Getting Down and Dirty

“Wait, wait, wait—you want to do  _ what _ now?” Oswald’s mouth pulls into a perfect “O” shape, and his cheeks burn crimson at what Edward has so nonchalantly suggested. Surely he’s lost his damn mind. Surely he’s had even  _ one _ sexual education course. (He certainly talks about sex like he’s swallowed every pamphlet a clinic has to offer.)

They’re in the middle of some marathon fucking—because somehow both of these men (despite Oswald’s physical limitations) are able to go at it like porn stars  _ every  _ time they have sex—when Edward pulls out of his beloved’s ass and prepares to shove his dripping (and, somehow, still hard) cock down the man’s throat.

Edward seems puzzled as to why Oswald is suddenly aghast. Perhaps he’s merely surprised by how much of an experienced sex machine his husband is, seeing as how the man has only had one sexual partner in his entire life—and it was a woman at that.

“What’s wrong, my little turtle dove?” he asks.   
“Ed, your dick has just been in my ass. And now you want to put it in my mouth?” It’s as if the man has somehow missed the very important lesson about how you Never. Go. Ass. To. Mouth. 

Edward merely waves him off. “Don’t worry, silly goose, it’s hotter this way because the writer can go into _ so much detail _ about how you’re leaking from your twitching asshole while I’m deepthroating you! Think of the metaphors! Plus, how else will people know that we are in love and sexually insatiable unless we’re running through every possible sexual act in one three-thousand-word story?”

Oswald ponders this for a moment and sighs in resignation. “If you say so.”

~~~~~

Two hours and twelve orgasms later, the pair are covered in so much spunk that one would think they’ve taken a deep dive into a pool of donut glaze. The floors are viscous, the sheets are sodden, and they’re stuck together—bound by the ropes of cum (ropes being the preferred unit of measurement with regards to cum; think of Spider-Man shooting out a web)—like macaroni glued to one of Martin’s art projects. Paints quite a picture. But neither of the men is fazed by this in the slightest.

“Sorry, husband,” Edward giggles shyly. “I forgot to tell you that I produce a gallon of semen every time I cum.”

“How is that physically possible?” Oswald’s mind boggles.

Edward shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“Not at all, husband. I’ll just call Olga to come clean this mess up while we have a nice bath.”

Edward nuzzles Oswald’s sticky nose with his own. “Perfect,” he says, still unable to fathom why the housekeeper mutters under her breath and glares every time she sees him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No but really, ass to mouth :S


	5. A Whole New World

Edward wakes to the cheerful chirp of a cuckoo clock and wipes his bleary eyes with the back his hands. After fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand, he notices a note has been left beside them on Oswald’s special penguin stationery.

“Sorry to run out before our morning tea—early shift today.  
Come in before yours and we can sneak into the stockroom.  
xxxoxo —Os”

Something feels different. Like putting your underwear on backwards or taking a gulp of water when you’re expecting soda. Edward doesn’t know why that is, but he goes about his morning routine as usual—shower, shave, crossword puzzle (natch)—before getting dressed to meet Oswald. Instead of wearing one of his suits, however, he pulls on a pair of khakis and a distressed green hoodie. It doesn’t feel quite right, (in fact, he wasn't even aware he owned such casual clothing) but something makes him do it anyway.

He packs Oswald a sandwich with a sloppy helping of spicy mustard—it seems 95 percent of Oswald’s diet is sandwiches—and heads for the coffee shop, guided purely by instinct.

The place is empty when Ed arrives—everyone must prefer the Gotham Starbucks or something—but that’s OK because it gives the two lovebirds the freedom to hang out in the back.

Oswald stamps out a cigarette and then immediately lights another, and pushes his greasy black hair (but like, fashionably greasy because it’s important that he’s pretty) out of his eyes like he’s seen one too many My Chemical Romance videos. Today he’s ditched his purple clothes for all black—except for his fingernails, which bear a flawless violet manicure with tiny umbrellas on each nail.

“Hey Ed, glad you finally came. I’m like so bored here,” Oswald says, sounding nothing like his usual self. “I’m just gonna finish this cigarette and then I’ll blow you before our one customer comes in.”

Startled by Oswald’s sudden turn as a hipster Robert Smith, Edward feels like he’s woken up in a bad dream. That grating, backwards feeling just isn’t going away, so finally he dares to ask: “What’s going on, Os? Do you… work here now? I— what _is_ all of this?”

“Um, _yeah_ , Ed.” Oswald rolls his eyes. “This is the fic where we work in a coffee shop, because our regular lives aren’t interesting enough. It’s Tuesday, remember?”

Perplexed, Edward tries to wrap his mind around this riddle. “Serving coffee is more compelling than running a criminal organization in one of the most storied cities in all of modern media?”

“It appears that way,” Oswald says as he flicks cigarette ashes to the floor. “But cheer up—next week we’re doing Disneyland AU!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, y'all are really sensitive about AUs lmao


	6. What We've Become

Edward Nygma and Oswald Cobblepot are sat at the breakfast table enjoying tea in their matching robes while catching up on the day’s headlines in the Gotham Gazette. It is the very picture of domestic bliss, and Edward looks up from the Business section periodically to smile at his lover and marvel at what a lucky man he is. But something is troubling Oswald, and Edward cannot help but notice the concern on the man’s face.

“Ozzie darling,” Edward asks at last, “is something wrong?”

He sighs. “I just cannot shake the feeling that we’ve peaked as villains, Ed.”

This isn’t a new topic of conversation. Every few months or so, one of the pair remembers something from their more villainous past—the glory days of mayhem and treachery—and has a bit of an identity crisis as a result.

“Don’t be absurd!” Ed reassures him. “After all of the things that you’ve done—you cooked your step siblings and fed them to their mother! You  _ killed  _ a  _ dog _ , for Christ’s sake! There’s nothing people find more despicable than that.”

Oswald huffs. “Yes, yes, you’d  _ think _ so. But I feel like no one ever remembers that. When they look at me, it’s like all they see is a man who drinks tea in his bathrobe by the fireplace. Is that what my life of villainy amounts to? And yours?”

Edward frowns. “Yes, but Oswald, you’re forgetting one  _ very  _ important detail. We  _ hugged _ in front of that fireplace for the first time. Hugged! And love, as they say, is blind.”

To everything else, apparently. It’s as if all the time before that fateful night has been erased, and Oswald feels like a balloon that’s two days past partytime. “I just want to be a villain again, Ed. Isn’t  _ that _ who we are? Who we’re  _ meant _ to be?”

The pain is evident on Edward’s face. It’s a reality he’s come to terms with long ago, and watching Oswald realize that they’ve become mired in a saccharine morass of schmaltzy, cookie-cutter tripe is almost too much to bear. But he puts on a brave face anyway, because it’s what his husband needs. And it’s far too late to escape their fate now.

“I— I’m afraid that’s just not in the cards for us anymore, Oswald. Nobody wants us to be vile; they want us to be misunderstood and tragic—with a desperate longing for redemption. Besides, we’re in love now. We’re planning a wedding and adopting a child and possibly opening an animal shelter sometime soon. There’s just  _ no _ time to wedge a few murders into our busy schedules.”

“But Ed!” Oswald despairs. “How am I going to keep ruling the great Gotham crime syndicate if I’m here snuggling you every hour of the day? My enemies—they’ll  _ ruin  _ me!”

Edward waves a hand in dismissal. “Nonsense, my little bird. They’ve all been  _ told _ that you’re the most fearsome criminal in all of Gotham; that will suffice. Now, you’d better go and get dressed. We’re going to be late for brunch with Barbara.”

Oswald’s face turns blank, and the spark of defiance that once lit up his eyes goes dim as he resigns himself to his this dismal life sentence. Charity balls where no one gets hurt. Family vacations. Benign brunches with Barbara Kean, who has somehow become Oswald’s best friend in the blink of an eye. (Nevermind that whole messy affair where she attempted to dethrone Oswald—now they can go shopping together and enjoy catty gossip over Saturday morning brunches and mimosas!)

This is their life now: dull, monotonous, empty. Forever, and ever and ever. Why does the stereotypical happy ending feel anything but? Oswald sighs. Surely this is a worse fate than death. But try as he might, he cannot find it in him to flip the script and escape this cloying prison.

“Coming, dear,” he says simply.

 

The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> U mad?


End file.
